


Good Morning Miami

by miss_moser_94



Category: Dexter (TV), Dexter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Slice of Life, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 10:39:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_moser_94/pseuds/miss_moser_94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Transfer from FF.net. <br/>(under revision)</p>
<p>"Hello, little brother."</p>
<p>Dexter's journey after certain familial connections are exposed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Morning Miami

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if anyone has read this on FF.net but i'm transferring it over here and giving it a good read through and yeah.

_Good Morning Miami. Breaking news; Brian Moser, also known as the ‘Ice Truck Killer’ has been arrested and is currently being taken in for questioning. He was captured only ten minutes ago, trying to escape the country via boat. He is currently en route to Miami Metro Police Station, where he is expected to arrive within the half hour. Brian Moser is believed to have..._

Brian.

Brian Moser.

My brother.

The office is in ecstasy. Anyone who could get access to the department did, I would say it was a party atmosphere, but I think that is probably an inappropriate label for such a situation.

Me?

If I could feel and I mean really feel, I would be scared. But I can't, so I just sit in my lab, and wait. He let himself get caught; I know he did. He said we wouldn't be separated again, I remember at our last meeting; he didn't like my refusal to play. Of course, now that I think of it, it really must have been was quite insulting; pushed aside by your brother for someone whom would never accept him if they knew the truth. But I couldn't kill Deb, can't, I need her safe; for my own selfish reasons maybe but I can't let die. The thought of killing Biney for her sake even crossed my mind, but I just can't indulge in the idea. We are blood brothers, intrinsically linked; our blood is the same, tainted by the same black oil which melds the dark passenger to us. My brother, the only person who could ever possibly understand the constant, relentless need; the rush of euphoria that floods you as flesh rips and blood spurts; as life slowly ebbs from tortured eyes...

Twenty minutes.

From my viewpoint under the level of shutters I see the homicide office, at full capacity now; like a distorted, disturbed street carnival which ‘it’ yearns to join; standing, I level my whirling head the scent of the mêlée arousing my senses, adrenalin begins to rage. I fight with the nosy crowd, reach the lieutenants' office where my sister has holed herself up. I am good to her. I'm guessing she is still fairly traumatised from the whole ordeal, and meeting her ex-fiancée and almost-murderer isn't too high up on her list of things to do. I reach for the handle but the doors swings open before I can touch it. It's Sergeant Doakes.

Joy.

I'm not sure how he manages to restrain himself, but I get away with just a glare before he turns away and renters the room. Not even a 'surprise motherfucker' shot my way. I'll just assume it's out of courtesy for my sister, then maybe this day can stay halfway sane.

If I was ever wondering where the ominous silence was, my question would have been answered.

The room is silent, pin drop silent. The available seating being used by only three of the four, Doakes stands on guard like a bulldog over a bone, mutely observing the street carnival just beyond the bluish glass. My olive eyes travel the rest of the space, I see the fine leather of his shoes before I see his face, Captain Matthews' arms rest on the pine effect wood of La Guerta's desk as his thumbs bead his eyes; several large veins on his neck rise with the beat of his pulse. But what I find most strange is the occurrence on the sofa just to my right. Deb, on the seat, being comforted by La Guerta of all people; she finally looks up at me, her face blotchy and eyes rimmed with red. I feel like I should try and bring up some sort of sad tale for her or tell her it's going to be alright, but I can't. My mind draws a blank. I've never been good for comforting people; so I sit by her side and just hold her hand. It looks so small in mine, and I wonder what would Brian's feel like? Roughened and calloused? Or smooth and supple? He's held my hand before, but I can’t remember his touch, a resultant effect of the etorphine hydrochloride.

‘It’ surges in my veins like ice. He's here, in the building. I can feel it; it's a thrum, a heavy energy throbbing through my aching limbs; dragging my body. I hug Deb distractedly and struggle to not run out the room. Pushing push past Doakes in the process, I hear a growl from behind me but I don't care, I escape, push through multiple bodies swaying like a fleshy wave, fighting against the bloody current I keep going.

I need to see him.

I need to see my brother.

It's only been a week since I've last seen him; since I've even known he's existed, but the need is there now, the dull, aching throb growing harsher with his very proximity. The faceless bodies between my brother and I are my only, pitiful restraint.

‘Biney.’

My heart pulses, tries to rip itself out of my chest, adrenaline slices my veins, and electricity taps my fingertips. He's in the elevator. Continuing to push, to pull, to get to the front of the flock of sheep I reach the helm when a warm, hard hand pulls my shoulder back.

"The fuck you going Morgan." Shit. Doakes.

"uhh...", because the only thing I can think of is 'I'm going to see Biney', and that wouldn't be a good thing to say.

“Fuck sake Morgan, your sister is crying her fucking eyes in there and you run the fuck out? I know you're as fricken' retard but seriously? What's wrong with you?"

I gape I suppose.

Now that's a question that I really don't want to answer.

"Don't tell me you're scared of the fucker?" A slight smirk curls his lips as he finds amusement in his taunt, Scared? Not quite.

The room goes ominously silent, Doakes loosens his vice like grip, lets me go and I take the opportunity to twist away from him.

Sliding through the remaining sheep I see the reason, Brian's on the third floor now.

Four more. Thirty seconds.

The silence seems to grow more foreboding, deeper, darker. All of a sudden it seems to hit people that maybe it's not a great idea to have a face-to-face with a prolific serial killer.

Not a problem for me.

Ten seconds.

My palms are sweating; it feels as though my heart is in my mouth, my stomach is lurching. Is this a feeling? Anticipation?

Five seconds.

I'm nervous. Agitated. My blood's pumping, everything's racing, and he's just so close.

Three.

Two.

One.

All this situation needs is some smoke machines and Darth Vader sequence music to make it any tenser.

The elevator door slides open smoothly, the regular hitch in the runner non-existent to my eager eyes. Angel walks in first, his face is stone cold, the sheep behind me use me as a barrier to peer over, their faces wide with horror… or fascination.

Ready for the main attraction?

Surrounded by a multitude of nameless police officers, all male, is him.

My brother.

Flesh and blood.

A serene smile graces his face that is completely inappropriate for the given situation, but I don't care. He's here. I can feel our passengers blend and taste each other, getting acquainted. Realising he must have noticed me; I meet his eyes, rusted brown to swamp green, and he stops walking. I almost laugh as I understand the sudden gust of air behind me and the hushed breath.

He's behind the glass separating the department to the hall, so all I can see is a flurry of lips forming words. Angel grits his teeth but nods nonetheless, a beaming smile forms on Biney's face, his lips curl over his straight white teeth, they pace back towards the glass doors that separates us, the flock behind me moves back, leaving me to standout alone. Doakes is behind me, muttering about my freakiness again, but that isn't important. Not anymore. It's just me and Brian now. I'm ready. The glass doors slides open silently, Brian's in front now, flanked by the officers just as I'm flanked by the rest of the police department. It's like a twisted parody of boxer's baiting, but neither of us will lose. My darkness intertwines with his, a perfect harmony of bone saws and cleavers. I find my feet moving, step by step. The distance between us is minimal now; two meters at the most, the magnetic hum of our blood pulling us closer together. We stop at two feet. The sheep surround the wolves, how deliciously ironic, and they wait with baited breath. Even the good sergeant is quiet.

An answer perhaps?

The room is so silent that a pin could drop and the echo would be heard.

Our faces blank, unmasked, people must see the resemblance. There's a smirk plastered on his face as Brian opens his mouth.

"Hello, little brother."

 

* * *

Silence.

Usually I crave it, the hum of a heartbeat extinguishing, the last breath sputtering from a tortured mouth. But now, I can't stand it. For what seems like an hour it spreads, the sound of nothing permeating the air until I hear the faint distance clash of porcelain against cheap carpet and it's like the world has begun to revolve again. A flurry of sound and movement begins; gossip surrounds me like a blanket, smothering.

I look to find Angel's eyes; they're wide and glassy with shock, he shakes his head, out of what I don't know, and starts pulling Brian away.

Part of me is screaming not to lose him again, but I can't scream. I have to be shocked; I have to deny I knew anything. They're almost out the doors now; my own hollow eyes follow almost...longingly. My hand reaches up; stretched towards him, my palm faces my stomach as my fingers curl loosely around an invisible arm, trying desperately wishing for another touch of his flesh so like mine. A violent whine threatens to lurch from my dry mouth as he fades from my vision, Brian turns his head and again ours eyes meet, but this time not one is interested in him.

It's me.

Dexter Morgan. Or should I say Dexter Moser now?

It feels as if the world is collapsing around me, a bomb shattering my perfect picture of a life, my mask cracking and exposing the real me to the light, every facet of my charmingly fake facade smashed, and lying in chards by my feet.

I've yet to turn, I feel hesitation.

Six syllables,

Three words,

And my life is upside down. If I turn, it'll solidify like glass, fragile, brittle, and sharp. A Decidedly Desolate Dexter Doll, empty and plastic.

Exposed.

I turn.

The Carnival has lost some of the jazz but none of the jive, office gossips staring until I look then they quickly divert their eyes. I span the room, looking. For something, anything, but all I see is stolid visage, like no one heard, but I know they did. It was rather hard to miss, the room was completely silent.

I put my mask on, act the part of distressed and unknowing naive man, but the air has changed. I need to get to my office, need to hide, recover, regenerate, a perverse Dr. Who shaping his new face. I force my features to show confusion, bewilderment, it works for the most part, I get a few meaningful looks, even a hug, but I'm exhausted, I let the last few chards of my mask down and step into the solace of my office.

I collapse into my chair, the momentum of my body nudging the chair along a few inches, resting my elbows on the desk I pull my hair and begin to panic; the delicious feeling of my reveal has begun to ebb and is slowly replacing with dread, what was he thinking? I'm fucked. Are they going to even let me work here anymore? Shit. Pushing the balls of my palm into my eyes I take a deep breath. This isn't so bad is it? Sure I'm related to a serial killer but I'll get more allowances now… poor Dexter; let him go early, he's still suffering poor love…

"So, is your big secret out, Moser?"

I should feel angry; I should rage and slice his jugular spilling his warm thick blood over the walls, but 'Moser'. That one word disarms me crushes the leathery wings of my passenger like tissue. My stomach begins to sink, and a genuine smile graces my face. I glance at Doakes, watch his face and see the exact moment he knows. His face drops, of course he picks it right back up but I know I could see it, the realization, I'm an expert in human emotion, and I fake them every day after all.

"You motherfucking cocksucker, you knew, you fucking knew!" He begins to rage, to froth slightly at the mouth, his eyes alight with fire, they widen even more.

"Fuck Morgan. Moser, whatever you are. That's why you ran isn't it? You left your fucking sister alone just to see your fucking psychopathic brother?"

Shit. Deb. I forgot about her, well… not really but she hasn't really been important lately. Our relationship has been slightly strained since she woke up to me standing over her, I saved her life but I stood over her for too long I think.

"Well as lovely as our conversation has been, I got to go." I run out the door not even bothering to sling it shut before I'm gone, I'll deal with Doakes later.

Here the carnival has simmered to a fiesta, the festering whispers breeding like maggots on a corpse, I hear the occasional 'oh, Mandy, they just look so alike, I can't believe we never saw it before' or the rather disconcerting 'well everyone knows that Dexter was strange, runs in the family you know' - you don't know how right you are lady – but rumours can't be worse than the truth so I continue to pace to LaGuerta's office. I reach for the handle, they don't know, all oblivious; I release the door as it swings open and move into the silent space. Three pairs of eyes dart my way, staring with expectation. I look to the Good Captain first; it doesn't take it long till he twigs. 31 years down the drain, sorry about that.

"Fuck."

The word spews from his frenzied mouth like an arterial spurt, his face crimson with flushed capillaries. Both La Guerta and Deb jump, I would have too if I hadn't know it was coming. Matthews turns his head, his long calloused fingers kneading the bridge of his nose, takes one heavy breath and with his other hand, points to La Guerta. Beckoning her he leaves the office, LaGuerta shoots me a confused look, and I don't react so she hugs Deb and follows him. Then I see her. Deb's astonishingly pale now, just like when Brian had her strapped down with saran wrap and ready for a slice and dice Dexter special.

The air in the room seems so thick, stifled with uncertainty, but I need to tell her, she'll find out anyway. I twist my head away from her to the window, Matthews is speaking to LaGuerta, I wonder what they are speaking about? Oh yeah, me. I can almost feel her gasp, her eyes comically wide, perfectly shaped eyebrows wanting to touch he hair line only to be scarpered by her Botox frozen forehead. I divert my attention; I feel Deb eyes burn into my sweated cold shirt so I meet her eyes, her normal angry deviance swallowed but still there.

"What the fuck is going on Dexter?" Ahh, even when her life is falling apart around her, she still has the same delightful mouth. Yet strangely... she seems so desperate saying it.

Does she even need to know? Everyone is going to think I told her and think it'll be a sore subject so won't mention anything, right?

"Tell me Goddamn it Dex!" she's crying now, tears streaming in rivers down her bloated face

Okay, go easy, be tactful.

"Brian's my brother."

 

* * *

Truth.            

 It’s a strange thing don’t you think? Humans hold it to such high esteem, an oath if all that’s needed to ascertain if you’re speaking the truth. I have to swear an oath, as an expert witness to tell the truth and nothing but it; not that I do, It would inconvenience my moonlighting.

 I work better with lies.

My lies are usually only small; brilliantly white in coating; things like where I am at night, but today?

I’m going to have to step it up. Of course while I didn’t actually know one of the most prolific serial killers in all Miami’s history was my brother till a few weeks back I would rather have it that no-one knew at all; I wanted to keep that my secret. My familial connections have always been odd, adopted after unknown circumstances, birth mother assumed dead, birth father dead too. But now, the ‘I don’t like Dexter’ squad of Doakes has got reason to feel suspicious around me.

I have the feeling that this will make my nighttime hobby rather more difficult for me, Doakes won’t let me go, It wouldn’t surprise me if he has put a tracer on my car already. 

But it also means I will have to find a way to explain this to Deb.

Deb; My foul mouthed, desperately-destroyed Debra.

To be honest I feel a little lost a darling, desolate Dex stranded in the Atlantic Ocean, plopped in a dingy in the middle of the Bermuda triangle.

How do I always end up in these situations?

Precious oxygen sucks out the room as the silence spreads; it is like before, this time more intimate. I feel it, the dark tendrils of ice whipping at the back of neck that send shivers down my spine. Then it stops, almost as soon as it has begun, mocking me, a husk of laughter echoing in hollow repose. I look to Deb; her body upon the sofa as if she were broken rag doll, her limbs lying awkwardly yet perfectly still. She must be uncomfortable, but I imagine that is the least of her worries right now.

She looks up to meet my eyes, the first time since my ‘shocking’ admission. I rather expect to see her eyes glassy with shock like Angel’s; but there is not any, much to my surprise however they’ are full of anger, pure white-hot fury. Shouldn’t she be crying? Maybe screaming I guess but is that not that what people do when they’re hurt?; not just stare with utter hatred in their eyes.

Maybe I’m getting off my game.

Deb growls, a deep guttural growl, that seems to emanate from everywhere and nowhere, and resonates deep within my bones, her body melds becoming taller and more open, her knees cracks as they straighten, fulfilling her to her full height.

 “What did you say?” it’s so quiet I can barely hear it, but somehow it gets the Dark Passenger chuckling, the rumbling awaking in my chest fills my blood and eases forth into my consciousness, the sudden rush of excitement flows to my fingertips as I say it again.

“Brian’s my brother”

It still fills me with glee, I feel almost giddy saying it and want to keep saying it, on repeat, over and over again, until I can’t say it anymore, I can’t breathe any more, but somehow I don’t think it would be appropriate.

 Ha, the irony, me. Giddy.

“Did you know?” Her anger is hidden behind a veil of restraint, only a veil mind, the rage is scratched all over her face. Deb was never very good at controlling her emotions; but it could be for poor Dexter’s benefit, he may have just found out too…

I must be hesitating because she asks again, apprehension at last seeping into her voice. Should I lie? Chalk up my stolid visage to shock?

She asks again. Her voice quickens, she’s panicking, and Dexter can’t have known? Could he?

“No”

The word hangs between us like a man on the gallows, the silence is awkward to say the least and its coagulating fast. Okay. That’s not going to work then, I sigh, somehow ashamed that neither of us believes it.

“Yes”

She begins to come towards me, slowly gaining inch by inch, until she is a foot away, glaring coldly into my vacant eyes.

I shrink; the dark passenger’s cool cruel chuckle begins to echo in my chest.  How is it that I’ve coldly and efficiently slaughtered over 40 serial killers and rapists, chopped them up and throw them to sea, but my little- fake -sister still intimidates me? Is it a sibling abuse thing? I mean her arm punches really hurt.

“How fucking long have you known Dexter?!”  Okay, defiantly angry.

I gulp; better not lie, “Since I came to the house.”

Her expression doesn’t change, but I see a twinge of realization settle in her eye, damn I had hoped she wouldn’t remember that.

“So you knew? You fucking knew when he had me strapped down to the fucking table fucking unconscious?!  You fucking knew when I asked you why he came for me? Jesus Dex.”

During her delightful monologue her voice crescendo’s like the climax of a song, violent and harsh, and poor little Dexter feels utterly whipped.

I open my mouth to try and justify an answer yet all that seems to fall from my lips is a feeble

“Yes”

 What’s wrong with me? Where is Dashing Daring Dexter, whose charming smile could melt the coldest of hearts? The dark passenger is obliviously not impressed as it rather forcefully tries to wrench my hands from the steering wheel and shunt me to the back seat. I barely keep my grip.

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me goddamn it?” her voice rising in pitch as well as volume,

“You didn’t need to know,” I reply, cause wouldn’t that be a great thing to bring up in conversation, ‘Oh hey Deb, you know your fiancée who tried to kill you? Well funny story, he’s my brother.’

“The fuck I didn’t Dexter! What the holy fucking mother of shit were you thinking?!”

“Umm.” The uber eloquence of dashing Dexter prevails again I see.

“Oh my god, that’s all you can say? Umm? What fucking good is that?”

I feel a tad vulnerable, my usual slippery silver tongue somehow dull and dry and my quick agile mind lethargic. I can find nothing else to say that doesn’t make me sound any worse, and it seems an understatement to say that she’s pissed.  My world is collapsing around me, turned upside down and spun around and I’m left stood in the middle.

Shit.

Deb’s still staring, her face showing disappointment? She breathes in and rubs the bridge of her nose. I never did understand why people do that, I don’t suppose I ever will I guess.

“Go, Dexter. Go home or somewhere else, even to fucking whore, I don’t care just … just turn up tomorrow, and it’ll be like nothing’s happened. Okay?”

It’s amazing don’t you think that as much we as a country that pride itself on free speech, I hardly get any? Deb stalks out the room leaving any objection from me still forming in my mouth.

Well that went well, well better that I thought it would anyway, and no blood has been spilled. Yet somehow I feel… exhilarated, the adrenaline slicing through my veins violent and glorious. Only a little bit of my past and present open for all to see and I love it.

I go home; I have my orders, besides, tomorrow a new day, a brand new day.

* * *

 

Ahh, Six O'clock, such a wonderful time of glorious calm; The sea breeze wafting through my window, spreading its wings and gliding towards my bed, the last tendrils of darkness slipping away into the shadows to reveal a bright new morn.

My lizard mind is slow, cold and unresponsive, yet I feel a certain-happiness?

Mmm, what did Dexter do yesterday?

Bring in doughnuts, mmm… cream filling.

File.

Blood splatter report on bludgeoning.

File.

Ate lunch.

File.

Saw Brian.

Fil…

Brian.

I hear a dark, sibilant chuckle ringing in my ears that seems to darken the blooming day and it all flies back. The carnival, the flurry of sound and movement, the silence, that sort of awkward silence that seems to sprout from occasions like that; My body decides it doesn't want to support its weight, so I fall back onto my bed. What am I going to do? As fun as it was yesterday, this is a really big problem. Not quite up there with knowledge of my hobby but yes, very close. Okay, Deb knows. That's not so bad. She is mentally scarred, sure, but she also thinks I didn't know that I had a sociopathic serial killer as a brother. We did find out at about the same time after all.

Doakes on the other hand...

Am I really that obvious? No I can't be, LaGuerta doesn't think anything is wrong with me; other end of the scale actually. Deb has no clue and I like to feel I know Deb quite well. Until recently she was my only family. I guess a big family reunion's out the question though, the last one ended with Deb strapped to a table Dexter style. Poor Dexter's rather primitive emotional system was overwhelmed, and Biney was disappointed by Dexter's lack of happy slappy slashy-ness.

I glance to my alarm clock and groan. It's half Six already; I really shouldn't talk to myself so much, a sign of mental illness apparently. Right: shower, shave, breakfast, clothing, shoes, and out the door. I can manage that without speaking to myself, right? And I do. Its quarter past seven by the time I leave, but with illegal driving, I should be there by eight. I lock my door, the cheap Wal-Mart Barbie head 'thunking' against the door. I probably should get rid of it now, the games over. Besides, I imagine my co-workers won't need any more ammo towards me should anything untoward happen now.

I mean a brother to a serial killer with a rather neat fetish for amputees carrying around a dismembered Barbie head? As a wolf hiding among sheep, that's some pretty big teeth.

I feel a trickling down my neck shooting ice down my nerves, I turn and my passenger makes a grab for control. I pin-point the thing of aggravation and know why. Parked across the street is a maroon Ford Taurus. A rather common car, that’s why the police use it for undercover work, I can't see who's in the driver's seat, but I have an absolutely hilarious idea that the occupant is African-American, about forty, and hates me.

Doakes.

I swear he's going to be the death of me. Well, actually it's probably going to be the other way round. Shame Harry's code won't let me kill him straight off the bat though. I decide I better go see what he wants; hopefully it's just to remind me to bring doughnuts. I'm doubtful though.

"Hello sergeant. Beautiful morning, don't you think?" good old' cheerful Dexter Morgan.

He just glares for a minute. So far so good. Nothing out of the ordinary there then, I'm just about to turn when he calls out.

"I'm watching you, Moser."

My grin drops almost immediately. Doakes is getting to be a big problem.

"I'm legally a Morgan, sergeant, and have been since I was three." Although I do like the ring Moser has. Dexter Moser…

"Yeah, sure Moser. You're still on doughnut duty, don't be late motherfucker." he drives off at speed, cutting off any possible witty remark I could shoot in return.

Well, it's nice to know I'm still on doughnut duty and a motherfucker. I guess some things never change. He is right about something though, I'm going to be late. First thing, off to Benny's Bakery, best in the county… for doughnuts.

I arrive at the station at 5 past, not bad if I say so myself. I only encountered one road accident, non-fatal, so it was a pretty calm drive over here. I go to get out of the car but my hand sticks to the handle. As there is no adhesive, it must be me gripping the handle in a death-like vice. My stomach starts to revolve, and I'm struck by a revelation. Am I nervous? For all accounts nothing may have changed, I already know Doakes still hates me, but what if people other than Doakes start to watch me, have me followed? Saying that would not be good would be an understatement as large as the emotional void within me. I'm now glad that most of the cops don't start coming in till 8:30. Technically all start at 8:00 but what's a mere half hour?

I manage to de-vice my hand and end up speed walking to the building, doughnuts in one hand, blood kit in the other, and a bag on my right shoulder. I must look like an idiot but I really don't care about that at this point in time. I see the main receptionist at her desk. She meets my eyes, and hers widen and dart down. Great, the news of Dexter's family issues have spread throughout the building. I get on the elevator and a man following me on. I smile at him, always a nice thing to do, and he starts to smile back. I guess he recognises me though, as his blossoming smile suddenly withers and dies. He pushes the button for two and moves to the far right of the space.

If I had emotions I think I'd be really upset because I recognise him as Officer Acosta who works in narcotics, fifth floor. Okay, so operation' nothing has happened' isn't going too well. At least my elevator ride remained empty for the rest of the way up. I reach homicide, my gut still performing cirque de soleil, and I put the doughnuts on the table when I realise barely anyone is here. Doakes, of course, Vince and a couple of admin staff. As charming as I am, I don't think chatting up some of the admin would be a good idea right now, so I head over to Vince, bringing a doughnut as a peace offering. By the rate I'm going today though I may need to buy Benny's to supply enough peace offerings for all the staff.

"Hey Vince, what's up? I come in peace." I finish with a little laugh to make it seem like everything's normal.

He looks up, sees me, grabs the doughnut and continues typing. If I'm honest I feel a little dumbfounded. After the reaction from the receptionist and Acosta, I had kind of expected Vince to jump out of his chair and hide in the corner. I must have stood there for in excess of a minute gaping, as I heard a voice jump me out of my muse.

"I'm guessing no one's told you?" It was Vince; he had swivelled to face me, a bit of cream still on his lip from the doughnut he had just devoured.

"You have a bit of cream on your lip and no, told me what?" He licked his lips, ridding himself of the cream, and took a deep breath.

"Well yesterday since we all found out … you know" he's obviously struggling to not offend me.

"ITK is my brother?" I don't think it could be anything else.

"Yeah, that. Well we, as a department, (meaning Capt. Matthews) decided we would try not to mention it, for everyone's sake." He means Deb, finding out that your ex-fiancée/ serial killer is also your brother's brother within twenty four hours must difficult to handle.

A warm feeling forms in my chest; I didn't know the department cared so much. Okay, so it's probably for Deb more than for me but that's all details.

"Oh, okay, thanks Vince." He nods and turns back to the screen. I don't dare look at it. Even I can be disturbed by his sexual fetishes. Hmm, maybe he's into acrotomophilia. Even though I'm touched by the department's decision for discreetness, I have the feeling it's still going to be awkward for a while though. I slink to my office; I really do love my office. It has such privacy, no uncomfortable questions as to why a lab geek is looking at criminal records and hacking into private files. I look at my watch, eight thirty , and just on time about twelve cop's come walking in coffee in one hand, the other empty ready to grab a doughnut on the way to their desks. Deb still isn't around but I don't blame her. Traumatic events don't do good things to people. Just look at the Moser family, a three day blood bath caused significant mental damage to two young boys causing them to grow up into serial killers.

It's early morning briefing time and as my sister isn't here to drag me to it, I don't intend ongoing. But just as I open my briefcase to begin work on a multiple homicide, an amateur and rather messy one I must admit, LaGuerta pops her perfectly coifed head in to my dark office.

"Umm, Dexter? We need you in the briefing room." She tries to look sympathetic but imagine that moving facial muscles once they have been chemically frozen must be quite difficult.

"Okay lieutenant." Cheerful with a hint of worry, perfect.

She leaves the door open and begins to strut away; maybe strutting is a heel thing as I end up strolling to follow her. She opens the heavy wooden door to the briefing room and all the muted muttering from the occupants stops as if I had cut their vocal cords. I settle into a seat in the awkwardly silent room and look around. Captain Matthews is here which means it's going to be about me. God, it's just about eight forty and I already have the urge to kill somebody. This day isn't going to well.

The captain clears his throat loudly and begins the 'Me' briefing.

"As we all know, the Ice Truck Killer, Brian Moser" several quick eyes dart towards me and the projected image on the wall "was captured yesterday. And while being brought in gave us some shocking revelations." Yep, serial killer sibling over here, "I just want to make it clear that no one is stir up trouble, there will be consequences, Thank you. Lieutenant you may continue."

That's the amazing thing about politics, it get the message to the target audience, while the rest are left scratching their heads. LaGuerta steps up to the podium clicking her heels in a lovely tune, she's just about to open her mouth when the wooden doors behind us emit a highly pitched squeak, A young man of about 20 comes rushing in, his wild black hair flopping in his face. He makes his way over to the rather dumbstruck looking LaGuerta. A rush of lips between them and a quick glance to me and the boy runs out, a new uniform I think. A pulse of excitement seems to ripple throughout the room, a buzz beginning as another instalment of Dear Dexter's Drama commences.

"They want you at the interrogation."

And although it wasn't addressed to anyone in particular, I have the feeling that the general consensus is that it was meant for me.


End file.
